


Your moves are so raw

by seren_ccd



Category: BBC's Sherlock, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-02
Updated: 2011-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-14 08:26:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/147306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seren_ccd/pseuds/seren_ccd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Molly and DI Lestrade make love, the one time they’re interrupted and the one time they simply don’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your moves are so raw

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** They are not mine. The title comes from INXS's _Need You Tonight_. I’m not quite sure why I keep using '80s songs for these two.
> 
>  **A/N:** Apparently, I'm addicted to these two. I was utterly blown away by the reception of my last Molly/Lestrade fic. Thank you so very, very much! This is a set of interludes in their life together. It’s pretty much unabashedly fluffy all the way, with a few ansgty moments. Do let me know what you think!
> 
> A very big Thank You to fringedweller for the beta and that dratted Mysterious Voice for enabling!
> 
> Previous Story: [The Breeze Deep on the Inside](http://archiveofourown.org/works/147301)

1.

“Are you sure it’s safe?” Molly asks eyeing the motorbike with uncertainty.

“It is if you know what you’re doing,” Greg says. “And I do.”

Molly furrows her brow. Greg chuckles and leans forward to press a kiss to her forehead, directly on the ‘v’-shaped worry line.

“You said you wanted to see what it felt like,” he says. “Come on, I promise I’ll go slow.”

She studies the bike and then rakes her gaze over Greg. She’d been shocked and well, terribly _aroused_ by his appearance on her doorstep that morning clad in black leathers. The jacket and trousers were obviously well-worn with scuff marks and creases. But they suited him so very well and the jacket just emphasized his solid physique.

 _You would be committing a crime against nature if you do not get on that bike right now,_ she thinks.

So, Molly nods decisively and says, “Let’s do it.”

The smile that Greg gives her makes her positively giddy, so she takes the helmet he hands her and then hops on. Well, maybe not ‘hops’. More like ‘gingerly eases her way to sit astride the hulking piece of metal’. Greg gives her another grin and lowers the shield on her helmet.

Then they’re off, winding through the streets of London. He stays true to his word and goes slow. They approach a road that will take them south and he pulls over.

“You want to keep going?” he yells over his shoulder.

“Absolutely,” she yells back, tightening her grip on his waist.

She catches a glimpse of a bright grin before he turns around and then they’re _really_ off.

The wind is whipping past her, through her thin trousers and jacket. The countryside flies by in flashes of green and brown. The engine under her is a strong, constant thrum and she presses herself closer to Greg. He takes a curve at a daring speed and she can’t help but laugh in delight at the way they move and tilt.

Eventually, he pulls over to a lay-by somewhere in the country. Molly slides off the bike awkwardly and takes off her helmet. She’s grinning the whole time and Greg laughs at her expression.

“Am I to take it that madame approves?” he asks.

“Madame really, really does,” she says. “How did you discover this?”

He shrugs taking her hand as they walk towards the field in front of them. “My father and his mates had them. I took my first ride when I was thirteen and haven’t looked back since. I don’t get to do it as often as I’d like.”

“I really liked it,” Molly says, the adrenalin still humming in her system.

“I can tell,” he says with a grin. “You’re practically vibrating.”

She laughs and letting go of his hand spins around. He laughs at her attempt at a pirouette and Molly lets herself fall to the ground. She sighs happily as she stares at the sky and watches a flock of starlings fly past.

There is a quiet creak of leather as Greg stretches out next to her. She turns her head and meets his fond gaze. Raising her head a little she kisses him. His mouth opens under hers and they kiss lazily, the sound of traffic on the road a quiet hum in the background.

His hand traces patterns around her breast under her clothes. Then it moves down to open her trousers and slips down under her knickers.

Molly gasps into his mouth and whispers, “Someone could see us.”

“They could,” he says and his hand stills. He lets his lips hover over hers, until she threads her hand through his hair and pulls him down. Greg slides one finger, then another, inside her and strokes her slowly and steadily. The sky is so very blue above her when she comes.

She’s breathing fast and still shuddering, while he presses his lips to her temple. She manages to say, “Goodness. You’re just breaking through all my barriers, aren’t you?”

Greg chuckles and says, “It’s only fair. You’re getting your way through mine.”

* * *

2.

He’d had an awful case and the court let the son of a bitch go. Greg shows up at her flat already slightly soused and with a splitting headache evidenced by his pinched expression.

“I shouldn’t let it get to me,” he says after she made him coffee and joined him on the sofa. “I should be used to this by now. The bastards. They’re just getting away with it all.”

“Sometimes they do that,” Molly says, her thoughts immediately jumping to Moriarty and how he managed to escape an exploding building. She shivers and Greg immediately reaches for her.

They sit quietly for a few minutes, her head against his chest, his chin resting gently on her head. He takes a deep breath and buries his nose in her hair.

“You smell like vanilla,” he says into the top of her head.

“Mm, it’s the only thing that really takes away the, ah, formaldehyde,” she says.

“I like it.” He rubs his forehead against her hair.

“How’s your head? Does it hurt?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

She lets him hold her for a while, but then starts to kiss his throat and undo his shirt. He makes a noise low in his throat and finds her lips with his own. His kiss borders on desperate, but he keeps it in check. However, Molly isn’t having any of that and deepens the kiss, making him shift restlessly under her hands.

Finally undoing the last button on his shirt, she presses firm kisses to his chest, her fingers teasing his nipples. She moves down his torso, kissing and sucking little red marks onto his skin.

He writhes under her ministrations and makes such a groan of anticipation when she undoes his trousers. The groan changed to an even lower pitch when she takes him into her mouth.

After he comes with a guttural call of her name, he pulls her up to kiss her thoroughly.

“How’s your head now?” she murmurs against his lips.

“Bloody fabulous,” he replies.

* * *

3.

It’s a Sunday morning and the weather looks especially nice out, but Molly is in no hurry to actually get out of bed.

Greg is moving slowly over her, pulling himself out inch by inch then sliding back in just as slowly. Her hands, where they had been placed very firmly by Greg and been instructed _not_ to let go, clutch at her headboard, gripping it so tightly her knuckles are white.

His hands cup her breasts and he is constantly telling her how she feels.

“So bloody tight, you are. Oh my girl, so fucking gorgeous. Could do this all sodding day. I’m gonna make you come over and over again ‘cause you feel so good, my Molly-girl.”

She does. Many times.

They don’t leave the bed until well after two that afternoon and that was only to make a cup of tea and grab the biscuits which were taken back to bed with them.

It never occurs to her to be upset about the crumbs on her sheets.

* * *

4.

Molly sighs as she drags herself up the steps from the Tube station and walks down the streets to her flat. Idly, she rubbed at her temples and dodged the other people dashing home. Her caseload had increased by nearly fifty percent due to one of her co-workers being out with the flu and Molly’s feet are complaining loudly.

She trudges up her steps and then up to her flat.

 _All I want is a nice soak,_ she thought. Then she remembers her dodgy bathroom door that never stays closed. _Oh, well. I’ll just wedge the laundry bin in front of it._

She unlocks her front door and is met by the most peculiar sight.

Gregory Lestrade is standing on a chair in the middle of her living room wearing a pair of tatty jeans and a t-shirt while fixing the light bulb in her ceiling lamp. He smiles when he sees her.

“Hello, love,” he says. “How long has it been since this thing blew out?”

“Uh, a couple of weeks?” she says. “What, um, what are you doing here?”

He gives the light bulb a final twist and steps off the chair. “It’s my day off. I heard you were back-logged and thought I’d come over to fix a few things I noticed the last time I was here.”

Molly blinks and says nothing. Greg starts to look worried. “I’ve overstepped,” he says. “You don’t want me here. Molly, I’m sorry. I can--”

“No!” Molly blurts out. “You haven’t-- I mean, I _did_ give you a key--” She presses her lips together and then says very quietly. “It’s only that no one has ever done something this thoughtful for me before. I wasn’t expecting it.”

Greg doesn’t smile or say anything, just comes over to her and puts his arms around her waist. With a sigh, Molly leans into him, dropping her bag on the floor to hug him back. His shirt is soft and warm beneath her cheek and she can’t resist rubbing against it a little.

“You didn’t have to do this,” she tells his shirt.

His chest vibrates pleasantly as he replies, “You had twice the amount of exams to do today than you usually do, which included the remains from that fire over near Holbern. The least I can do is fix a blasted light bulb.”

Molly pulls her head back to look at him. “Greg, it’s my job.”

“Yes,” he says with a nod. “It is. That doesn’t exclude you from someone wanting to take care of you for once.”

She traces a smiley face on his chest over his heart. “I should stop looking a gift horse in the mouth and milk this, shouldn’t I?”

“Yes, you should. It’s rather imperative you do so,” he says. He leans in for a kiss and Molly lets him.

Then she squeaks and pulls away. “I smell awful. Let me go shower.”

“Take a bath, if you want,” he says. “I’ve got dinner under control.”

“You can cook?” she asks raising her eyebrows and looking hesitantly at her kitchen.

“Yes, I can cook, thanks ever so,” he says ushering her towards her bathroom. “Mother Lestrade was very firm about her boys all knowing how to at the very least boil a pan of water. Now, go have a bath. I fixed that door of yours, so it should close now.”

Molly feels her heart stutter. “You fixed my door?”

“Yep,” he says pressing a kiss to her throat. He leaves her staring at her newly fixed door with a crooked smile on her face.

She takes a nice soak, but doesn’t stay in too long. Wrapping herself in a big towel, she darts into her bedroom. Towelling off her hair, she considers whether or not to put on what she bought the previous weekend. Going over to her dresser, she pulls out the silky black slip and matching robe.

 _He fixed your door,_ she thinks.

She puts it on.

Then she pads in her bare feet to the kitchen. She grins when she sees him standing in front of the stove stirring something, he’s got a dish towel thrown over one shoulder.

“Smells amazing,” she says. He turns to reply and ends up staring at her.

“ _You’re_ amazing,” he says a goofy smile appearing on his face. “Get over here.”

Molly walks over to him and his hands automatically slide around her waist and up her back. He kisses her lightly, teasing her with just the tip of his tongue. She teases back, running her hands up his chest and down to brush against the front of his jeans. He deepens the kiss and brings his hands up to remove the robe. He sucks in a breath and immediately kisses along her collarbone and slips one of the thin straps off her shoulder. Molly lets her head fall back as his mouth moves over her.

Backing her up, Greg lifts her onto the table and stand between her legs. Molly tugs at his shirt and he lets go of her just long enough for her to pull it off of him. They resume kissing and he trails his hands up under her slip.

He stops kissing her and raises his head to meet her eyes. “No knickers, young lady?”

“I didn’t think they were necessary, detective inspector,” she says pulling his hips closer with her legs.

“They most certainly aren’t,” he says roughly before kissing her fiercely.

Dinner ends up being slightly burnt, but neither minds all that much.

* * *

-1.

Molly is wearing Greg’s shirt and is slowly unbuttoning it. She’s got navy blue lingerie on underneath and with every flick of a button through the button hole, she gives him a tiny tease of the satiny fabric.

He’s sitting on the edge of her bed, shirtless, wearing only his suit trousers with the fly halfway undone. His eyes are following each of her movements and Molly feels spectacular. In charge. Sensual. Sexy. _Powerful._

Then the front door opens and slams loudly. Molly freezes, as does Greg and their eyes meet. Someone starts rustling around in the kitchen. Molly’s mouth opens, but Greg hold up a hand and abruptly transforms into the stony-faced detective inspector.

He mouths, “Stay put.” Then quiet as a cat, he makes his way into the living room. Molly clutches his shirt around her and edges towards her mobile and the cricket bat by her bed. Just in case.

The rustling continues in the kitchen. There is absolute silence, then Greg says quite loudly, “Holmes! What the _bloody_ hell are you doing here?”

“Looking for the tea, what are you doing here?”

Molly sighs and buttoning up Greg’s shirt, she walks into the kitchen to see Greg, still shirtless, glaring at Sherlock, who is looking far too at ease.

“Sherlock, what are you doing here?” she asks coming to stand beside Greg.

He switches his stare to her and says, “We’re out of tea at my place.”

“You could go to the shop,” she suggests patiently. “Or even ask Mrs. Hudson for some.”

“Mrs. Hudson is on _holiday_ ,” this is said with a modicum of disgust.

“That does not bloody give you the right to break into a person’s flat!” Greg says. “How the devil did you get in?”

“Exactly like you said,” Sherlock tells him. “I broke in.”

“If I ever hear of you doing it again, I’ll take you in,” Greg says, a muscle in his jaw clenching. “Don’t think I won’t.”

Molly cocks her head and studies Sherlock. She notices the lines around his eyes and the way he’s holding himself. Oh. Right.

“You’re bored again, aren’t you?” Molly asks.

“Yes! There is absolutely nothing happening in the wretched city,” he says starting to pace.

“You’re bored?” Greg says putting his hands on his hips. “You’re bored and so you just...let yourself in to Molly’s flat?”

“Yes. Why not? It’s not like I would be interrupting anything,” he says, then he rakes his gaze over them. Greg rolls his eyes while Sherlock eyes his bare chest and then Molly in Greg’s shirt. He raises a brow as he takes in Molly’s bare legs and she blushes hotly. Greg clears his throat pointedly.

“Well, apparently I _was_ interrupting... _something_.” He turns away and starts opening all of her cupboards.

Greg looks at Molly with an exasperated expression. He leans over to whisper in her ear. “How do we get rid of him?”

“I’m not sure we should,” she whispers back.

“What?” he asks incredulously.

“Well, the last time he was this bored he shot up his wall,” she says absently watching Sherlock stack all her tins on the counter.

“He _what_?” Greg says looking horrified.

“Has John been telling tales again?” Sherlock asks.

“Sarah actually,” Molly says.

“Ah. Of course.”

Greg scrunches up his face and raises a hand. “Look, I can’t be hearing this. Can’t we just call Dr. Watson and get him over here?”

Molly remembers her latest conversation with Sarah and knows what the other woman had in store for the good doctor, so Molly says quickly, “I don’t think we should bother him. Sherlock can just stay here.”

Greg’s face falls. “Molls, really?”

“Do you truly want him out on the streets of London in this state?” she asks. Greg looks over at Sherlock and sighs. “Fine.”

Molly pats his chest and then walks over to a large M&S bag on the floor near her sofa. She picks it up and brings it back. Both men watch as she drops it on the table with a thud.

“What’s that?” Greg asks.

“This is every autopsy done over the last five years that for some reason or other, we haven’t been able to confirm an absolute cause of death,” Molly says. She turns the bag on its side and a few files spill out. “We either only completed a partial exam or none at all. All we managed to do in some cases was take photos and document our initial observations.”

Sherlock sidles over to the table and stands next to Molly. He idly flips a file open and says, “Who made the initial observations? Not Saunders, I hope.”

Molly bites back a smile and says, “No, not Dr. Saunders. These were either my own or possible Dr. Murton’s.”

“Hmm. Well, it’s not Christmas by any stretch of the imagination,” Sherlock says. “But, it’s certainly a passable bank holiday.”

He unbuttons his suit jacket and takes a seat at the table with a flourish.

Greg’s expression is unreadable when Molly walks over to him. “Well, how long do you think that’ll occupy him?”

Molly shrugs and doesn’t miss how Greg’s eyes fall to the hem of his shirt against her bare thighs, but says, “I imagine it’ll keep him busy until something exciting comes along.”

He nods and casts a baleful glare in Sherlock’s direction.

“I’m sorry,” Molly says coming closer to Greg. “I know this wasn’t exactly how you planned to spend your evening.”

“Oh, no,” he says. “I don’t mind playing nursemaid to a bloke who’s got far more intelligence than common sense.” He gave Molly a heated look. “It’s just a shame. I _had_ planned on shagging you rotten tonight.”

“Oh, had you?” she asks letting her fingers come to rest on the top of his trousers.

“Good God. Am I going to have to listen to this all night? I’m trying to work here.”

Greg closes his eyes in irritation and Molly sighs then says, “I’ll just make us some tea then, shall I?”

* * *

4.

They trip over themselves entering Molly’s flat, kissing frantically and grinning stupidly at each other.

It’s the first time they’ve seen each other in days. He’d been caught up in a baffling case involving the murders of various stockbrokers and had been running around the city in Sherlock’s wake. Everything had finally fallen into place earlier in the evening and everyone was properly nicked and then booked.

Molly had received a text as she was leaving St. Barts that simply read: _Finally free. Yours?_

Her response had been: _Take a cab. You’ll get there faster._

Their respective taxis had arrived at the same time. Money was thrown at the cabbies and Molly and Greg collided and the foreplay pretty much started right there on the doorstep.

Now, coats are puddled around their ankles and Greg is sucking on the spot just under her ear and she’s arching her back and wrapping a leg around his hip.

Of course, his mobile beeps in his pocket.

“Bugger, bugger, bugger,” he mutters.

“Only if you really want to,” Molly says breathlessly. Greg flashes her a wicked grin and checks the message that’s just popped up. He groans and shows her the text.

 _Must discuss the ending of the case. There are interesting parallels to be examined. - SH_

“He’s got to be kidding,” Greg says as he lets his head fall to Molly’s shoulder. She plucks his phone from his hands and taps out a reply.

Greg starts to chuckle when he sees the message and goes back to kissing her neck and sliding his hands up and down her sides.

Molly hits send and then chucks the phone in the direction of the kitchen table. With a growl, Greg scoops her up in a bridal carry and he heads in the direction of the bedroom, Molly laughing the entire way.

*****

Sherlock looks at the message that Lestrade has just sent him.

 _Sorry Sherlock, it’ll have to wait. The DI is in the process of getting laid. - MH_

“Utterly hopeless,” Sherlock says with a sigh.

He shows the message to John, who just snorts and says under his breath, “Well, at least someone is.”

* * *

5.

It was horrific, the state of the bodies they found. So much blood and the terror was evident on their faces. They caught the people responsible, but still...

When he doesn’t turn up at her flat, Molly goes to him.

“I’m not in a really good state, love,” he says after letting her in. She doesn’t say anything just follows him back to his bedroom. They curl up on the bed with his head on her stomach, her hand scratching lightly through his hair.

“What a fucking waste,” he says. “Those fucking animals.”

Greg turns his face into her stomach and breathes in. He starts to mouth at her skin through her shirt. His hands are rough as he peels her clothes off her body. She goes to remove his trousers, but he pins her to the bed with his eyes. He suckles hard at her breasts and nips at her stomach as he moves down her body.

Her knees come up to frame his face as he hovers over her exposed sex.

“I want to hear you,” he says darkly. Then he licks into her hard and fast.

Molly moans and moves her hips, desperately trying to match his rhythm. But, he keeps changing from long drags of his tongue to short flicks against her clitoris.

She doesn’t know how many times he makes her come before finally pushing into her. He kisses her, pulling at her lower lip with his teeth, letting her taste herself and the bed creaks under the weight of his thrusts.

Afterwards, she holds him in place, and they fall asleep with him still inside of her.

* * *

  
+1. Sunday

It’s around eight in the evening and Molly is proofreading an article for a colleague while Greg watches rugby. She’s only recently found out that he played while at school and that little fact _does_ things to her.

Her toes are wedged just under his thigh while he runs a muttering commentary on the match while taking a sip every now and then from his can of Stella.

Molly hides a smile at a rather harsh critique of a play and goes back to making notations on the article.

At one point, he reaches for her foot and begins to massage it, his fingers pressing firmly on her heel and then her instep. Molly looks at him in surprise and the realisation that she really, truly loves this man smacks her in the face.

Because, she really _does_ love him. Her fingers tighten on the pages of the article and she bites her lip to hold in all the _feelings_ that have just bombarded her.

Greg looks over at her and smiles at her, a slow, easy smile that she can’t help but return. He must see something in her face, because his smile softens just a fraction and his hand stills on her foot. Then he tickles the bottom of her foot. She shrieks and he grins. Molly kicks him lightly with her other foot and he resumes the massage.

She goes back to her article and he turns back to the telly.

Molly feels wonderful and as she’s correcting a misplaced semi-colon, she feels pretty secure in the knowledge that someone is going to get lucky during half-time.


End file.
